Page 19 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Lumberjack

"Also already did." He steps into the classroom. The room shrinks. "Marcus seemed like he could handle it."

"Marcus is five."

"Marcus is the most competent person I've met in a week. That kid's gonna run the world."

A laugh tries to escape. I clamp down on it. Fold my arms, mirror his stance, keep the teacher desk between us.

"Five days, Wal. You didn't text me for five days."

"I know."

"Three months of every single day, and then nothing."

"I know." He stops at the edge of the desk. Close enough that I can see the tired lines around his eyes are deeper. The silver in his beard looks like it's gained ground. He's been sleeping badly. I can tell because I've been sleeping badly too, and grief wears the same face on everyone.

"I moved her clothes."

The words land in my chest. "What?"

"Tuesday night. Sat on the bedroom floor with a box from the garage. Folded everything. The yellow cardigan she wore when she was cold. The robe. Every single thing." His voice is steady but his jaw is tight. "Her books are in a box on the shelf. Her reading glasses are in the nightstand in the spare room, because she read in there sometimes when I snored."

My hand covers my mouth.

"Took me four hours. Maple sat with me the whole time." He reaches into his back pocket. Pulls out a small, worn photograph. Sets it on my desk. A woman with dark hair, laughing. "That stays on the mantel. She's part of my life. She always will be."

"She should be."

"But the bedroom is clear. The closet has my clothes on one side. The other side is empty." He puts both hands flat on my desk, leans forward. Those brown eyes burning. "I left it empty, Hattie. On purpose. Because the only person who gets to fill that space is you."

The tears come. I can't stop them. Don't even try. They roll down my cheeks while he watches me, standing on the other side of a desk covered in crayon shavings and gold star stickers.

"You drove three hours."

"Two and a half. I broke the speed limit in Fallon."

"You told Marcus you're my boyfriend."

"I am your boyfriend. If you'll let me." His voice drops. "I'm not good at this. I'm grumpy. I don't talk enough. I live three hours from your school in a town with one bakery and a dog who sheds on everything. But I love you, Hattie. I've loved you since the needy letter Q, and I was too busy being faithful to a ghost to say it out loud."

My legs move before my brain gives permission. Around the desk, past the tiny chairs, straight into him. His arms close around me so tight my feet leave the floor. His face buries in my neck, my hair, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

"I love you," I say into his shoulder, fisting his henley. "I love you, you impossible man."

His mouth finds mine. Warm, desperate, tasting like black coffee. We kiss in my kindergarten classroom surrounded by finger paintings and the alphabet rug, his hands gripping my hips, mine in his hair. When we break apart we're both breathing hard.

"Take me home," I whisper against his mouth.

"Reno or Whisper Vale?"

"Whisper Vale. Take me to your bedroom."

He drives us in his truck. My car stays in the school parking lot because I don't care about logistics right now. His hand stays on my thigh the whole drive, warm through my skirt, thumb tracing circles on the inside of my knee.

We barely make it through the front door. Maple greets us, tail wagging with actual conviction for the first time. But Wal walks me straight past the hallway photos, past the spare room, into his bedroom.

Empty hangers on one side of the open closet. Clean sheets. Cora's photo on the mantel in the living room, where it belongs. Not erased. Honored. And room made for me.

He undresses me slowly. Skirt, blouse, bra, underwear. Lays me on the bed. His bed. Strips himself down, rolls on a condomfrom the nightstand drawer that now holds just one pair of reading glasses fewer.